In Body I Trust Page 9

  And she was right. Amelia was far too accustomed to being the one making the mistakes that impacted other people. But as Amelia’s younger self stood in front of the vanity mirror, she couldn’t help the fact that she’d just made a subconscious decision that would impact the rest of her life.

  Regardless of what was meant by her mother’s words or her father’s choice to create a new family, Amelia’s brain had quietly planted the seed of how it would process physical beauty and emotional pain. A sponge with zero control, only human conditioning. Her sponge soaked up the nasty bacteria of the media, her parents, bullies at school who taunted her about her upper lip hair and lack of “experience.” All of her learned behaviors spiraled into her teens, twenties, and eventually reached their climax at the brink of thirty.

  Amelia needed to collect herself despite the hangover. She turned the knob of the shower and jumped in before the water was warm. The stream lathered her hair and trickled down from her face to her toes. She scrubbed her arms and legs as hard as she could in an attempt to remove the remnants of yesterday’s mistakes, one dead skin cell at a time.

  She turned off the shower and stepped out of the tub. The condensation kept the mirror covered with a thick fog so she wouldn’t have to see herself. She threw on an oversized T-shirt and a pair of baggy sweatpants. Nothing tight or constricting, only clothes that would mask her body behind the cotton.

  There was no stopping the sensation of stomach acid boiling up into her throat. The only thing she could do to stop the incessant discomfort was to eat something of substance. She stopped caring about the eating disorder when she was hungover. The voices in her head didn’t scream at her or call her a failure. Everything was hushed by a wave of a post-intoxication.

  She opened up the refrigerator and saw one avocado that hadn’t managed to rot along with two end pieces of whole grain bread. No more safe or fear foods. Just sustenance. She toasted the bread and put thin slices of the avocado on top. The two pieces of toast stared at her in the face, mocking her into submission.

  Amelia slowly bit into the crunchy wheat and chewed with hesitation. She could swallow it, or she could spit it out. Her first bite slid down her throat. Already the nausea was starting to subside. Amelia took another bite, and then another, until the first slice was gone. Amelia placed the plate with the second piece of toast on a shelf in the fridge for later. One small victory for the day.

  Luna whined at her feet, ready to play and seize the day. The first storm of the season was getting ready to roll over the city. It was better to walk Luna now than to get caught in the rain later. Amelia didn’t want to deal with a soggy dog or have to force her frail, recovering body to endure the weather. She couldn’t afford to get sick on top of everything else.

  Luna, per usual, ran down the stairs towards the front door. Amelia held onto the railing to keep herself from tumbling down onto her face. Out the doors and through the front gate they went, Luna pushing with her back legs to sprint towards Emmett’s stoop. He sat on his usual stair with a hand rolled cigarette, wearing his newsboy cap, enjoying a mid-morning cup of coffee. He noticed the two from afar and waved at them. Amelia let go of the leash and Luna leaped onto Emmett with love and licks to the face.

  “Well, isn’t this the best greeting in the entire world. Good morning, Luna!” Emmett smiled from ear to ear at her adorable and enthusiastic welcome.

  “Hey Emmett. How’s your morning going?”

  “Well, I fell asleep on the couch last night and woke up at 12:25 a.m. only to start freaking out because it was obviously Christmas and I hadn’t done anything to prepare which made it incredibly difficult to go back to sleep. So that’s how my morning is going.”

  “I’m excellent with last minute things. Need help setting up the tree?”

  “I think I just might.” Emmett couldn’t help himself from laughing, despite his very serious demeanor. “I think we also need to sing a carol.”

  “I learned one when I went to Scotland if you’d like to hear it.”

  “I would love nothing more.”

  In her best, but poorly executed Scottish accent, Amelia sang the holiday carol she learned at a bar in Edinburgh. Dozens of locals had linked their arms together, screaming in unison at the top of their lungs after their fifth, sixth, seventh beer of the evening.

  “It goes, ‘You’re a bum, you’re a punk, you’re an old slut on junk. Lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed, you scumbag, you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot, Happy Christmas you arse, I pray God it’s our last.’”

  Emmett burst out into an uncontrollable laughter. Amelia couldn’t remember the last time she made someone laugh. It was unbelievably rewarding. Her brain and mouth weren’t on the same page when she was hungover, which meant she had no filter. Sometimes it got her into trouble. In this case, she was on point.

  Thunder clattered in the background.

  “Hey, Emmett, would you like to come over and watch the storm from my balcony with us? You can bring Kerrin, too.”

  “I love a good rain shower. Let me run inside and grab her.” Emmett extinguished his cigarette and within a few minutes came back down with Kerrin, barking and jumping towards Amelia’s face with excitement.

  They walked two doors down and headed upstairs into Amelia’s apartment. In this circumstance, Amelia usually would’ve been nervous. She was having someone, a guy no less, over to her house for the first time since she’d moved in. She was barely used to having human interaction, and now she was going to be in close quarters with a man. At least she had Therapy Thursday to fall back on if she needed an excuse for him to leave.

  They headed straight for the balcony and another cigarette as they watched the rain pour down.

  “So this is what it looks like from up here in your tower.” Emmett scoped out the scenery of Denver.

  “Ya, it’s pretty nice. I try not to take it for granted, but I’m only human.”

  “100% human if I do recall.”

  Emmett pulled out his tobacco and papers and rolled another cigarette. Amelia joined in by pulling out one of her American Spirits from its bright blue pack.

  So it goes.

  Amelia read the phrase tattooed across Emmett’s knuckles. It was a line from a book by his favorite author. Amelia read multiple Kurt Vonnegut books over the last few years. Not because she wanted to, but because Dominic had insisted. It wasn’t anything against Vonnegut, she actually really enjoyed some of his books. Dom just had this way of making her feel ignorant if she hadn’t read the eight million books he had over the course of his lifetime. He was too smart for his own good. She never argued though. Amelia simply followed through with his suggestions because she didn’t want him to think she wasn’t smart.

  “I think I’ve made a decision,” Amelia said, lighting up her cigarette. “I’ve set a deadline for myself.”

  Aside from making her lists, Amelia found something definitive in creating deadlines. It provided her accountability and forced her to take action instead of remaining stagnant through her indecisiveness. Achieving goals gave her a mission. It made her a little bit lighter and able to cope until her next deadline.

  “What is this deadline for?”

  “Well, if June rolls around and I’m still going down this path, if I’m still not taking care of myself and am spending nights laying on the bathroom floor, I’m going into treatment.”

  Amelia told Emmett about passing out, wasted away like too many other nights. Too stoned to comprehend anything, buried beneath her eating behaviors. Treatment might be the only way to hold herself accountable. It would be her next mission.

  Dominic suggested multiple times that Amelia should consider an inpatient treatment facility. But whenever the conversation came up, she’d fight back, telling him that treatment was for sick people. And Amelia wasn’t ready to admit that she was sick. Treatment was the ultimate defeat.

  Amelia compromised with Dom. If she wasn’t going into treatment, she’d start going to group t
herapy every Saturday morning. Not only was it a way for her to connect and find support from others in similar situations, but it was also a scheduled reminder of where she never wanted to end up. Detailed stories of a woman her mother’s age in the emergency room with tubes down her throat. Tears shed over friends lost to their eating disorders. Amelia didn’t want to become a bag of skin and bones wilting away on a stretcher while paramedics tried to resuscitate her—or worse, wind up in a casket she’d built for herself.

  “I might not see a future for myself right now, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want one,” Amelia admitted, uncrossing her legs and folding her jacket over her chest to keep her warm. She had poor circulation because of how low her body fat ratio was, but she couldn’t stop sweating because of the excessive amount of alcohol and processed sugar she’d had the night before.

  Orange tinted Halloween lights were woven in and out of the balcony’s barricade. They provided enough light to see the other’s face, but not too much that it put the spotlight on either person. Amelia was sensitive to light and had trouble making eye contact. Too much and she’d be intimidated by the idea of someone seeing her outer flaws. Too little and she’d crawl back into herself, wondering what the other was thinking because she couldn’t read their facial expressions.

  Emmett didn’t say anything about her considering treatment. There was no rebuttal or expression of agreement on the matter. He simply nodded his head in acknowledgement because there wasn’t anything more that needed to be said. He understood and would comply with whatever she needed to do in order to succeed at becoming healthy again. Someone she barely knew had put more effort towards understanding her illnesses than someone she once thought she’d spend the rest of her life with.

  Emmett’s alarm on his phone went off.

  “I need to take my meds,” he said with a hint of discomfort. She could tell he didn’t want to leave.

  “No need to explain, I understand.”

  Amelia did understand perfectly. Eating was a series of alarms and timers. It had to be. The same meals, at the same time, every day. Otherwise she’d end up in the exact position she was in now. Emmett’s medications acted in the same way. If they were slightly thrown off his days would follow suit. He was allowed a three-hour window in order to take his medications, but it was better if he kept them regulated.

  Amelia walked Emmett to the front door. He rubbed Luna’s belly goodbye, gave Amelia a hug, and he and Kerrin went out the door on their short, not-so-arduous journey two floors down to their apartment.

  So it goes.

  Alone again with only her thoughts to keep her company—and Luna of course—Amelia pulled out her phone and texted Corey for no other reason than to not be alone. She jumped far too soon into a short-term relationship with him after Dominic left. Six years older, a fixer, and set in his ways. But just like Dom, Corey couldn’t handle the emotional baggage she brought along with her. Another reaffirmation that she was too sick for anyone to love.

  On paper, Corey was perfect. Tall, dark, and handsome were the cliché words he used to describe himself. He had a good career, a contagious laugh, and a spirit that never let the sourness of the world taint his day-to-day life. He had a knack for knowing what Amelia was thinking. During one of her anxiety attacks at his apartment, Corey came into the bedroom and found her curled up under the covers, hiding from the glorious sunshine coming through the five-foot-high windows on a beautiful Wednesday afternoon. He laid down next to her and wrapped his arms around her frail body as tight as he could without breaking her. She never told him that this was how she was able to get through one of these episodes. To have someone hold her with a grip that squeezed every bit of panic out of her pores.

  I feel safe. I feel loved. I feel comforted.

  “Do you feel comfortable?” Corey whispered tenderly in her ear.

  Amelia nodded her head.

  “Do you feel safe and loved?”

  Amelia nodded once more.

  “Good.”

  As if her thoughts spouted through his lips, Corey said the exact right thing without any prompting.

  But when Amelia moved into her new apartment in Capitol Hill, she decided that in order for her to move forward with her recovery, she needed to end her romantic relationship with Corey. If she gave herself space and time to be alone, she could learn to love herself again—to find a reason worth living instead of pouring whatever ounce of energy she had left into another human. She couldn’t continue putting herself last, transferring every issue she hadn’t resolved about Dominic right onto the next person.

  Amelia put her phone in her pocket without sending a text to Corey. She couldn’t. She didn’t even want to talk to him. It was just another pathetic excuse to ease her lonely heart.

  As more space and time passed between the two of them and their relationship, she realized it wasn’t a temporary setback. It was a permanent detachment that broke her heart, but she couldn’t ignore the red flags from those few months together anymore.

  He was a workaholic, just like her dad. His inability to open up. His constant need to fix her when all she needed was someone to listen. His lack of support is what killed her the most.

  In a manic episode, Amelia spewed out multiple ideas to release the pressure from her brain and Corey found a reason to squash every one of them. He needed to know the logistics of how something as insane as what came out of her mouth would ever work. She never felt supported with her ideas, regardless if they were feasible or not.

  Why did it seem impossible to find someone who would cheer her on rather than snuff out her creative fire? She’d spent too many years of her life having her authentic self be squandered. She made a promise, set a boundary: she would never be with someone who would make her feel that way again. The line was drawn in the cement after Dominic and she refused to move it for anyone. Corey was no exception.

  The red flags weren’t Corey’s fault. It wasn’t necessarily anyone’s fault. They were just two different types of people who had two very different love languages. Fault had nothing to do with it. Codependency, anxiety, depression, bipolar. These were all human conditions, along with a laundry list of other factors, that shaped Amelia into the woman she was. They weren’t her fault.

  “It’s about creating new neural pathways,” Miranda explained to Amelia. “You need to find ways to redesign the curves in your brain, but it takes practice.”

  Maybe Miranda was the answer she was looking for all along.

  Chapter 9

  Only one hour left until therapy. She had to make it through just one more hour and then she could be in the room with Miranda, spilling her heart out. Amelia felt as if this day was a day of striving. Emmett’s voice ran through her head.

  Striving days show us where we need to go.

  She recognized what it took for her to get by. Drink water, walk Luna, talk to at least one other person, and eat a small meal. Nothing more, nothing less. Just enough to catch a glimpse of where she needed to go. Hopefully Miranda would shed a little light on how to make it through the darkened tunnel to get there.

  Miranda wasn’t her cup of tea when she first started going to therapy. Amelia had met with only one other mental health professional, but not since she was a teenager. At eighteen, she had a consultation with a male psychiatrist. Within twenty minutes of sharing her story, he cut her off and prescribed her Fluoxetine (the generic form of Prozac). One small white piece of paper with a scribbled signature on the bottom later and she was out the door. Amelia swore she’d never go back to therapy. It wasn’t until hitting rock bottom that she gave it one more attempt.

  Because of the lack of true care that was taken by her first psychiatrist, Amelia’s assumptions of Miranda tainted their initial phone consultation. But she wanted to get healthy and wouldn’t let any more excuses stand in her way. After their first session together, Amelia broke down on the living room floor of her apartment. Not because she was sad, but because she finally found hope tha
t someone might be able to help her. It was exactly what she needed to start making strides in the right direction, a single step towards the realization that she actually was sick.

  Thirty minutes left until therapy and the anxiety was already in pursuit. Miranda’s office was only eight minutes from her apartment, right off Downing Street. Leaving early meant she’d have time to sit in the parking lot and write about what she wanted to cover. Her bi-weekly sessions had to be used to their maximum potential, never leaving out a single important detail.

  Amelia went down to the garage, got in her car, and drove the eight minutes to Miranda’s office, sitting with only the humming of the air conditioner to alleviate the silence.

  She made a list of what she needed to talk about: Her recent revelation on the slowest suicide known to human existence, her recurring dreams of Dominic, her night of binge eating that broke her five-day streak, her inability to move forward. That was plenty, more than the hour would permit and enough to leave her emotionally exhausted by the end. Amelia made a mental note to leave any discussion about Emmett towards the end if time allowed it.

  Four minutes left, and still nervous she’d be late even though she was sitting in the parking lot right outside the front door. She hated being late. She was prompt. Always prompt. The first to arrive at parties, meetings, or appointments, and usually the first to leave by pulling the classic ‘Irish Goodbye,’ fleeing the scene before anyone had a chance to notice she was gone.

  One minute left. She shut the car off and headed through the main entrance. Miranda was already standing in the waiting room with her usual glowing smile and perfectly styled blond hair.

  “Hey Amelia, good to see you. I’m really glad you’re here.”

  Amelia nodded in acknowledgment. She never started talking until they were in the room together with the door shut. Miranda’s office was exactly what she’d envisioned a typical therapist’s office to look like. The shades were drawn and subtle lighting from two lamps on opposite ends of the room created a warm, glowing environment. A couch was placed next to her desk, comfortable but not so comfortable that someone would want to stay and call it home. Miranda pulled out her computer chair and wheeled herself in front of the couch, gesturing for Amelia to sit down.